


Porcelain Wings

by Idlewild



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Broken things mended, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idlewild/pseuds/Idlewild
Summary: He shouldn’t be this devastated over a silly old mug. And yet his hands tremble as he gathers the pieces of porcelain, and his eyes sting as he contemplates the finality of their fragility.A shattered angel-winged mug. A crying angel. And a kind, helpful demon. (My take onOne With The Mug.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	Porcelain Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Davechicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The One With The Mug](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362515) by [Davechicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken). 



> I loved the story so much that it made me want to write a different version, one where Aziraphale is the one to break the mug. There is less introspection and more crying in this one...

He is being ridiculous. In the grand scheme of things, this is not even a blip on the radar. Still, his hands tremble as he gathers the pieces of his fallen mug, its broken wings and formerly pristine whiteness. Oh, but how could he have been so clumsy? An angel shouldn’t be clumsy, but then again, an angel shouldn’t surround himself with pointless material possessions or indulge in hot cocoa either. Yet here he is – an angel of shattered porcelain and broken wings.

No, he’s not projecting, not at all. He is not fallen, nor broken, but he does feel like he’s cracking, sometimes. The mug can be mended, just as he has mended his heart and his will and his ego over the centuries, but he would still see the cracks. He will always see them.

So his hands tremble as he lays the gleaming ceramic down on his desk, and his eyes sting as he contemplates the finality of their fragility, and his throat aches as he tries to deny that any of this is happening. He shouldn’t be this devastated over a silly old mug.

He doesn’t even know where he got it, for crying out loud! He has plenty of other mugs and cups to choose from, and could even miracle one up if need be. But this was his favourite, his mug of indulgence and self-pampering. The one he would cradle between his hands when the world got a little too rough, letting soft chocolate steam waft into his mind, soothingly. The mug to mend his cracks, and now it’s cracked too, and yes, he _is_ actually rather a bit devastated over it. Yes, he is actually weeping over a silly old mug.

The bell above the door tinkles, cheerfully as ever, and without needing to look up he knows it’s Crowley. He tries to banish the blur of tears from his eyes and the lump from his throat, preparing to meet the sunglassed gaze of his sun-eyed friend like a well-adjusted ~~person~~ ethereal being who _isn’t_ about to go to pieces over broken pottery.

”Hey, angel!” Crowley drawls jauntily as he saunters on over, and then ”hey, angel?” again, but worriedly and warily this time.

Aziraphale tries to conceal the shaking of his hands by fussily sorting through the china shards, an endeavour that has quite the opposite effect when he drops a few of them on top of each other with a small, dejected clatter. He clasps his hands in front of his tummy instead.

”Want me to mend that?” Crowley wonders softly. It’s a rare tone of voice for him, last employed on a night-time bench in Tadfield, and the sound of it breaks the tentative hold Aziraphale has on his emotions. He sinks into his desk chair, head bowed, a tear landing on his trouser leg to leave a chocolate-coloured splotch, and he nods almost imperceptibly.

Crowley is incredibly perceptive.

He comes closer – a knee presses up against the side of Aziraphale’s thigh in a way that is far too casual to not be deliberate – and picks the pieces up one by one, gently, slotting them together in his palm. Minute grinding noises emanate from the pitiful shards as they seek out their former positions, the correct orientation to form a whole.

Crowley stills. His hands glow faintly, and Aziraphale raises his eyes just enough that he can peer obliquely at the proceedings. There’s not much to see, however, just slender fingers arched over shining white.

And then Crowley’s hands open, slowly and lovingly like that time he resurrected another dove that had suffocated up Aziraphale’s sleeve, and he hands the mug over.

It’s back just how it was. Only now, along each healed crack there runs an impossibly thin seam of deep gold, akin to kintsugi but exactly the colour of Crowley’s eyes.

”Oh –” Aziraphale begins, an entire tirade of gratitude and self-reproach and love gathering on his tongue as he finally looks up into those eyes. But none of it comes out because his breath catches and his shoulders begin to shake and fresh tears splash onto the gleaming mug in his hands as he ducks his head.

Crowley drops to his knees then, removing the mug from Aziraphale’s slackening grip to place it back on the desk, and takes both Aziraphale’s hands in his own.

”It’s okay, angel,” he mumbles. ”You’ll be okay.”

Aziraphale lightly leans his forehead on top of Crowley’s hair and draws a deep breath full of fire, cinnamon and old leather. ”Thank you, my dear,” he says, the sentiment encompassing so much more than winged porcelain, mended.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally publishing something for this fantastic fandom! I've been daunted, but now I'm dauntless! :D


End file.
